


Dim Shadows

by ararelitus



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst with an Angsty Ending, Anne Ross Lives AU, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Grief, Historically Inspired, M/M, More angst, Mourning, NOT a terror fix it!, Time Skips, all hope abandon ye who enter here, ok its not all doom and gloom but this is not a fix it ok?, warning there are a few scenes with heavy drinking, with a great deal of historical liberties taken for narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ararelitus/pseuds/ararelitus
Summary: James Clark Ross tries to cope with the ever growing absence of his closest friend. Anne Coulman Ross tries to cope with the loss of the man her husband used to be, before their endless grief.(Or: two people who love each other dearly try to live in the aftermath of Franklin’s lost expedition)
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Lady Ann Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, James Clark Ross/The Void Left By Francis Crozier, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 29
Kudos: 7
Collections: The Two Captains Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jackalynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackalynn/gifts).



> Title is from the last line of JCR’s 1819 poem:  
>  _“As late the splendours of Aurora’s fire  
>  To dark oblivion sank, in wasting flame;  
> Like the dim shadows of departed fame!”_
> 
> I highly recommend reading this in parts. This got significantly heavier and darker than I planned or anticipated. I feel really bad… but I sort of passed the point of no return so… here it is. 
> 
> Repeat: not recommended to read this all at once. 
> 
> Timeline note: I've spent too much time considering the speculative history and _how_ James Clark Ross could have been near Back's Fish River in _September_ of 1850 given his crew had to return in September of 1849 because they were badly affected by (it seems) scurvy and/or lead poisoning. Also what JCR's confirmation of the Franklin Expedition crew's deaths in 1850 would have a massive ripple effect through history (although I doubt it would change much in Jane Franklin's mind). So for this story, I've decided to opt for the historic timeline where he returned to England in November of 1849. 
> 
> Note: yes this shows as incomplete, that is not a mistake, there is an epilogue coming! However, the story is complete by itself as it is without the epilogue. 
> 
> [There is also a playlist for this!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/52Sw7iR8w8W8oSFe6ctEGJ?si=B0vztjn8Q9ya8SieCUpl3w) Though I must say most of it is just songs from [Blasted-heath’s fantastic JCR playlist ](https://blasted-heath.tumblr.com/post/624297791228968960/blasted-heath-aurora-gone-a-prog-heavy)
> 
> This is a fill for the prompt given by blasted_heath: "Older JCR, either a fix-it or not! Perhaps he is remembering his younger days with Frank, participating in the Franklin searches, or living happily with Francis and Anne now. I just love my old boy from the portraits." As you can see, I did not go with the fix it option, a thousand apologies

### November 1849

James Clark Ross had not seen the open sea once, during a long, cold, and brutal year. It took days to be free of that ice, and James had feared they’d be forced to spend another winter off North Somerset. 

Too many weeks too sick to stand, no supply ship and endless ice, the only choice he had was retreat. James only hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. That Frank hadn’t gotten himself frozen somewhere in that pack, just out of reach. 

James had no way of knowing. Moore and Richardson were still out there, perhaps they’d found them by now. James had to hope. It was all he had. 

Enterprise would be in England in a matter of hours. James’ steward had done his best to make James’ hair presentable and had given him a clean shave. He dressed in the cleanest clothes he had and splashed some water on his face. 

His face had healed as best as it could, but he’d seen better days. His waistcoat hung loose, even over his sweater. Under the coat, it wasn’t too noticeable. 

“How do I look?” he asked as he walked out into the great cabin. 

“Exceptionally well, for the stunts you pulled out there,” Bird replied. He sat at the table, legs crossed, sipping his cup of tea. 

“Ed.” James did his best to give him a sideways glance.

“What? We’ve both seen better days! Anne will be more than happy to see you, that’s all that matters.”

“I’ll be even more happy to see her.” Without Frank, without Anne, James could barely take it. He had Bird accompany him on Enterprise for the journey back, his poor health had been a thin excuse. 

“Stop fidgeting, you’re going home, everything will be alright.”

James looked down. He’d been spinning his ring around without noticing, enough to leave a red mark on his finger. He sighed. “You’re right, you’re right.”

“Are you alright?” Bird asked. He clasped James’ arm as the port drew closer and closer. 

Something about the gesture made James feel like a nervous midshipman again. “Yes. Perfectly fine,” James replied. 

“Liar.”

James sighed. He could see a large crowd had drawn, even though everyone already knew he’d failed in his mission. “Nothing I can fix now.”

He didn’t have to turn back to know Bird was shaking his head. 

As men worked to secure the ship, the gangplank began to lower. James squeezed Bird’s arm before he walked on ahead. The gangplank descended. James’ heart raced as he walked onto land and off a ship for the last time. 

James looked on at the yelling crowd. He tried his best not to run the second he spotted Anne’s face. Thankfully, she was the one that ran to him. 

“James!”

He wrapped her arms around her. He’d lift her up off the ground and spin her around if he could. But he held her close, burying his face in her soft scarf. 

She was warm and real and finally in his arms again. He could feel the tears pooling in his eyes and turned his head before he could soak the scarf.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

She shushed him. “You’ve come back to me, that’s all that matters now.”

### January 1850

The snow fell heavily outside the window, making James wonder if he’d truly left the Arctic. 

With every expedition, he’d found it harder to leave that place behind. It had instilled its grip on him when he was young. This last trip was no exception, but he was sure it would be his last. 

Of course, James was warm now, able to sit still and observe the snow and not truly experience it. Not that James liked sitting still – unfortunately there wasn’t much more he could manage. His muscles and bones still aching, holding onto the memory of that long trek across Boothia. It had been all for nothing.

James cast a quick glance at the man sitting across from him – the artist painting his portrait. He couldn’t see much of the man behind the easel, only hear the strokes of a brush against the board. Perhaps it was frivolous sitting for a portrait now. James had certainly seen better days, at that, when he’d actually come back from the cold with some grand discovery. Not that there was much else he could do now, but wait. 

James had hoped perhaps a letter, or even Frank himself, would be waiting for him when he returned to England. That did not happen. Instead, there was always that little voice telling him that it was hopeless, it had nearly been five years, no amount of rationing in those awful conditions… 

James braced himself against the table. 

“Sir, please hold still,” Pearce said in a careful tone. 

“Right, my apologies,” James replied. 

Life had to go on. It had to. James had made it through worse before, and Frank was more than capable. Although he was no longer twenty-nine, and James had just learned the hard way that the Arctic was not for old men. 

James looked back at the snow. He looked out the windows a lot lately. It wasn’t something he was inclined to do in his youth. Now he was hoping he might just glimpse the figure that would finally deliver him a letter bearing good news. Frank and his men, found alive and well. It could happen any day now. 

The uncomfortable truth was that no letters he received were ever good news. James tried to put the words of his uncle and of Jane Franklin out of his mind. Whatever they may say about him, it didn’t matter now. As long as James got that letter, sooner or later. 

His worry and flurried thoughts were likely showing in his portrait. His mouth would be a harsh line. Perhaps it would be fitting, though – this painting was to be about the search, and this was the reality. 

James let out a sigh. This wasn’t how this was supposed to be. They were supposed to be celebrating by now, James’ achievement overshadowed by that of Sir Frank Crozier, second to Franklin, in finding the Northwest Passage. 

Frank should be here now, sitting for his own portrait, finally. Sword in hand and shining epaulettes on his shoulders. Not freezing in the Arctic while they painted the search party. 

They’d be throwing a party in his honour, where he could dance with Sophia Cracroft, or any other lady of his choosing, all while complaining to James. Then when they returned home at the end, James would make him dance once more. Just the two of them, after too much champagne, in the dimly lit sitting room, just like old times. 

It could still happen. It would, James reassured himself. Just a couple months, perhaps a year later than planned. It would. 

“Well, how much longer is this going to go on, exactly?” Anne asked. James couldn’t help but smile when he heard her voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the bright blue of her dress. 

She swept into the room and stopped to stand behind the artist and study the image. “You’ve certainly captured his hair… and those eyes. So deep in thought, isn’t he? Good work.”

“I should be able to wrap up for the day in a moment, Lady Ross,” Pearce replied. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Anne walked over to stand beside his chair and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I would like to have my husband back – he’s been away for quite some time already.”

James couldn’t help but lean into her arm. Oh how he’d missed her during that miserable long year. 

“Well, that’ll be all then. Have a good day, sir,” Pearce said. 

“Here, let me show you out.” James gripped the arm of his chair in an effort to stand. 

“No need, I know my way now,” he nodded, and disappeared from the room before James could protest. 

“I’m glad that’s over,” Anne said, squeezing his shoulder. 

“My darling, you do realize I need to sit for this portrait at some point?” 

“Yes, yes, I just don’t think it’s fair that he gets to steal you away for such long periods at a time.”

“Well he’s gone now.”

“That he is.” Anne leaned in and kissed him. “Now come and join me for tea.”

She took his hand and pulled him from the chair, leading him into the sitting room. There, a pot of tea and two cups awaited them. 

Anne had planned this before she’d walked into the room where James was sitting for the portrait. 

He looked into Anne’s blue eyes – like an ocean on the other side of the world. If he stared at her long enough he’d almost forget everything. 

Almost. That was the catch. 

James turned back at the falling snow outside. 

“Oh James.” Anne’s hand brushed his. “You went somewhere else again.”

James shook his head. “Sorry, seems I’m tired from all that… sitting...”

“He’ll be back yet, you’ll see,” she whispered. “Just wait until the spring. We will hear from them any day now.”

“Yes, you’re right,” James replied. That’s what he was supposed to hope, but an awful lingering feeling told him otherwise. “Any day now.” He tried to smile as he turned back to his tea. 

### May 1850

Anne remembered when Lady Jane Franklin and Sophia had visited her last. It was a warm occasion, full of hope. James would be back with their Frank and Jane’s husband in a matter of months – or so she thought. 

“Anne, my dear, how have you been?” Jane asked, with a polite smile. Jane’s tone had changed now. Cold, the warmth towards Anne only a veneer now. 

“Well, under the circumstances,” Anne replied. “And you?”

“And the children?” Jane pushed on, avoiding the question.

“They’re well, thank you.”

“Right, well, you’ll have to excuse me while I speak to your husband.” She turned and stepped into the study, where James patiently held the door open for her. 

James had shown her the letters – or at least done a poor job of hiding them from her, if that was his intention. It was hard to imagine how close they once were. 

Anne settled down on the settee in the hallway, close enough to still be able to hear what was being said.

“Congratulations by the way,” Sophia said as she sat down beside Anne.

“Pardon?”

“You’re expecting, are you not?”

“Oh, yes.” Anne brought a hand to her stomach. She had been showing for months now, but Jane didn’t even seem to notice.

“I hope you and your husband are happy. Unlike my aunt, I can understand why your husband wouldn’t want to go back there, he has a family to look after here, after all.”

“Yes, that he does.” Though Anne would understand, even if her father did not. James would come back, James always came back from the cold. Anne thought Frank would too. 

“I’m sorry about my aunt, she’s… she has her own way of trying to deal with things.”

“I know.” Anne almost understood, even. Who knows what she would have done if it had been James lost in the Arctic. Except Jane’s situation was not much different to James’, more than she could ever realize. But Frank would be back yet, Anne was confident. She had to be, _someone_ had to be. 

“I can’t help but reminisce about the time we came to stay with you last. I do wish… well, I wish things could be different...” Sophia reached to take Anne’s hand then stopped herself. 

“As do I,” Anne replied. She’d always thought they could be good friends. Perhaps they still could be, when this was all over. 

They sat silently, pretending not to be able to hear what was going on in the study. 

“You can’t be serious? You’ve got to be planning your next expedition, you can’t just abandon them out there!” Jane accused.

“I remind you that this is no light matter for me, I have two great friends out there-”

“You are their best chance, James, you do realize that!” Jane insisted. 

“I’m not giving up on the search, there are plenty of capable men in the Royal Navy and they will send more, I am sure,” James replied. 

“Who else will they send, hm? Your uncle? You know what an utter waste of time and resources that would be! Besides, all those men, they’re all more obsessed with finding the passage than our men! None of them are as skilled navigators as you.”

James was quiet, it wasn’t a good sign. 

“I will find a way to fund my own expedition if I must, you know I will. But please James, don’t force me to resort to it!”

“I am sorry,” James said, barely audible from the study. 

The door opened, and Jane’s heels clicked rapidly over the hardwood. 

“Sophy, come on,” she said, without fully entering the room. 

“I-” Sophy looked back at Anne, apologetically. She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to reconsider. Instead, she hesitantly stood to join her aunt. 

“Good day to you, Lady Anne,” Jane said. 

As they left, Anne took a deep breath. The house fell quite again, too quiet. She stood and walked into James’ study.

“Well, that went about as well as I expected,” James said. He sighed as he sat back down in his chair. It was beginning to grow dark, and he hadn’t bothered to light a lamp.

“Will you be going back again?” Anne asked. 

James didn’t answer. He sat quietly hunched over the papers on his desk. 

“You know I won’t stop you, not for this,” she added. “If that’s the matter...”

James shut his eyes as he turned to her. “The last trip nearly- I’d still be there if I’d thought we could survive another winter… I fear another expedition like that one will be doomed to the same fate.”

“I know.” She leaned against the back of the chair and rubbed his shoulders. “There’s got to be another way?”

“Yes, overland. If they abandoned the ships, that’ll be the only way...” 

Tiny footsteps echoed in the hall. James turned to the doorway. 

Little James raced into the study, followed by Annie, doing her best to hobble after him.

“Papa, papa, will you tell us a story? Like you did when I was little?” the boy asked.

“Oh no! My deepest apologies, I’m afraid I couldn’t stop them,” the nanny said, looking at James nervously. 

“No, it’s perfectly alright!” James stood from the desk and knelt down to hug both his children at once.

“No worries at all,” Anne reassured her. 

“Well then, what stories would you like to hear?” James asked, all the sadness he held moments ago seeming to disappear. 

“The penguins!” little James cried. 

“Ah, penguins. I suppose we can do that...” He looked over at Anne nervously. “Let’s get you both upstairs first.”

James picked up Annie and took little James’ hand as he led them out of the study and upstairs to the nursery. 

The boy raced into the bed and Anne settled into the daybed by the window.

“Penguin story! Penguin story! Penguin story!” Little James chanted eagerly.

James settled into the armchair beside the bed, still holding little Annie in his arms. “Right, the story. Let’s see… this was many years ago now, I was still a young man then.”

“Oh, your father is being rather melodramatic,” Anne teased. 

“What? It’s true. My hair was still this colour.” He reached forwards and ruffled the little boy’s hair. “It all began when I sailed to the Antarctic, hoping to find the south pole...”

Anne knew it was easier for James to focus on himself in these stories. He didn’t have to think about Frank – the unavoidable factor in everything. 

“We hoped to plant a flag on the island you see,” James went on. “I was there with Fr- ah! With a shipmate of mine. The problem was, the penguins did not like us trying to invade their island. The king of the penguins thought we were attacking them, so he rallied his penguin soldiers and ordered them to stop us by any means necessary.”

“Woah.” Annie sat staring up at her father in awe.

“Now you see, the problem was that the penguins were only about this tall.” He held his hand about half a meter off the ground. “Still, they had us vastly outnumbered. They weren’t armed with any weapons, because they didn’t need to be, not with their sharp beaks. We didn’t plan for an attack, and were weighed down by our heavy instruments.”

Little James sat up, his head propped up with his arm, listening intently. 

“They attacked us, but fortunately they weren’t able to do much damage. F- uh, my shipmate was bitten by one of them and let out a shriek so loud it must have frightened some of them. He insisted we retreat there and then, that it wasn’t worth it.” A smile lit up James’ face. “But then I saw a clearing between their ranks, and I grabbed his hand and pulled him behind me as we made a run for higher ground! I couldn’t stop laughing once we’d made it.”

“Did you win the battle for the island?”

“Well, I suppose we did. The island didn’t turn out as impressive as I’d hoped. I stopped laughing then.”

“What happened after?”

“Oh, nothing too eventful. The penguins had forgotten about us when it was time to return. We had to cut the trip short, after all one of my men was injured, I had to get him back to the ship...” James drifted off again, his smile fading and gazing becoming heavy. 

“Oh! Tell us another!”

“I think that will have to be all for the night, your father has had a long day, after all,” Anne interrupted before James could talk himself into it. “But I am sure he can tell you another tomorrow?”

“Of course!” James said. “Perhaps I’ll tell you about the polar bear this time.”

“Polar bear!” Little James cried. 

“Oh no, James, I think they might be too young for that one...”

James considered for a moment. “Ah, you’re probably right. There will be a story nevertheless!” He stood and brought Annie over to her bed, not before kissing her on the forehead. 

Anne turned to tuck little James into bed. “Good night,” she whispered. 

“Good night, Mummy!” he called. 

She put out the lamp and together they left the room. 

Outside, James seemed far more worn out than when he entered. 

“Perhaps you need an early bedtime too,” Anne whispered. 

James yawned. “I really should answer some letters...”

“And they’ll still be there in the morning.”

“I suppose you’re right,” James said, nodding. 

“If you insist on not sleeping, perhaps you can read to me before bed.”

James chuckled. “Very well.”


	2. Chapter 2

### July 1852

James walked out onto the sunny lawn. He stopped beside the picnic blanket, where Anne sat holding little Thomas, and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. 

“Your daughter is out trying to be you, again,” Anne said. She put a hand up to her face to block out the sun as she looked on ahead at the pond. 

“Is she now?” James asked.

“Collected every jar she could find in the kitchen this morning, took little James – now they’re over there catching insects.”

“Bugs!” Thomas cried enthusiastically. 

James looked over. There little Annie was, her skirt tied up, wading through the water with a net bigger than her head. 

James Jr. on the other hand wasn’t too invested in the activity, opting to sit on the grass with a sketchbook. 

“Ah, I remember doing that.”

“Yes, you got paid to do that as a captain in her Majesty’s royal Navy,” Anne chucked. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Well then, perhaps I’ll go and join someone who understands the appeal.” James smiled back at her. He kicked off his shoes and rolled up his trousers, feeling the grass against the soles of his feet as he walked towards the pond. 

Annie was just replacing the lid on a jar, putting it with the others, all lined up on the bank.

“What are we doing here?” James asked.

Little James held up his book. “Trying to draw, but Annie keeps scaring the ducks!” 

James ruffled his hair. “Ah, I’m sure you’ll catch them in a more cooperative disposition one day. For now, science calls!” 

“I’m on an expedition, like you, Papa!” Annie looked up eagerly. “Look, I caught a Great Silver Water Beetle!”

“Oh?” James waded into the cold water. His ankles wouldn’t be pleased with him for this later, but this would be worth it. 

Anne held up the jar. “Just like the ones in the big book in your study!” she smiled.

“Would you look at that! Excellent work. Anything else interesting?”

“No, just some backswimmers and water crickets. I was hoping to find a toad!”

“Well, there’s always next time.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

She grinned brightly. “Will you help us catch more?”

“Of course, In fact – here, let me show you a trick I learned with the net.”

She handed it over to him. It felt heavier in his hand, heavier than he expected.

Then again, he hadn’t held a net like this in many years – more than a decade, even. He looked back at the jars, lined up in the grass. He’d put them like that too.

James looked back out across the pond to where it was shaded by the trees and squinted his eyes. He could picture it clearly now, Frank wading through the ponds in Van Diemen's land, trousers rolled up but still splattered with water. He’d been collecting aquatic plants –- at least until they had decided that was enough for the day and started splashing water at each other. 

They had to walk back to their lodgings soaked, running into Eleanor and Jane who’d come to check in on them. Eleanor had screamed when she saw the sight of Frank with algae in his hair. 

“Papa, are you alright?” Annie tugged at his sleeve.

“Oh.” James dropped his net. “Yes, yes, perfectly alright. Sorry – I seem to be a lot more tired than I thought.”

“You’re always tired,” Annie said. She looked up at him with his own eyes. Worry. James didn’t like that at all.

James shook his head. “I’ll be fine, perhaps I should sit in the sun for a while. Now, let’s show your mother what you’ve found.”

Annie smiled again. “Yes! Great idea!”

“Well, how about you?” James asked, looking back down at James Jr.

“Think I’ll sit here a while longer, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” James looked over at Annie and reached out his hand. “Let’s go then, shall we?” 

She grabbed a jar in each hand and eagerly raised her arms to be lifted up. 

With a sigh, James picked her up, ignoring his back as he carried her across the lawn towards the others. 

He set her down on the grass beside Anne.

“Mummy look what I found!” Annie held up the jar with the biggest beetle. 

“Oh, that is impressive!” Anne smiled. 

Annie turned to Thomas, who eagerly reached for the jars. 

Anne leaned over to James. “She’s not a baby anymore, you need to be more careful with your back.”

James brushed her off. “It’s nothing.” 

Anne sighed. 

### September 1852

James sat on the ground and watched the yellow and orange leaves fall into the pond. The bright colours on the trees almost reminded him of the wattle blooms in Hobart. They would be blooming there now, without him. Without Frank. It is not as if the trees or the Antarctic ice missed then, but James could not say the same.

Back then, when he looked at those blooming acacia trees, could he have imagined himself here? Another year, another change of leaves. Another English season coming and going, without Frank to see it.

James looked out at the two man-made islands, rising from the waterline. He had been thinking of happier times when he had named them – now they tortured him. Stuck there, motionless, and just out of reach, just like his former ships.

Everything here he had planned with Frank’s return in mind, so had Anne.

A drop of rain fell on James’ cheek, and then another. He couldn’t deny any longer that it was raining. 

He picked himself up off the ground, trying to ignore the protests from his back and knees. He returned back to his house and dim study.

Many letters awaited him on the desk, none of them containing what he wanted to hear. His former ships and shipmates were out there again, searching. James was here wondering when they’d return empty handed, trying to prepare himself. 

How could he prepare for such a thing?

James’ doubts did not lie with any of the men’s abilities, but with their chances of any meaningful success. The Arctic was vast and empty and hungry.

It was the feeling in his chest, the deep emptiness. A wound that never healed. In a way, James was still out there, freezing. Feeling what Frank might – or might no longer – be.

They all thought it, even if they didn’t say it. If Frank were dead, James would know. 

He would know. He _would know_.

James took a deep breath as he picked up the letter from John Barrow Jr. There were answers to seek, still, he supposed. But it was too late, wasn’t it? He’d started asking too late.

Seven years. Seven especially cold years, without the supplies at Somerset, there was no chance. Any day some letter would confirm it. Some documents, a grave, a frozen body... 

James would know – wouldn’t he?

He had to. If he didn’t… The alternative was hard to imagine. 

James opened the top drawer of his desk and reached for his letter opener. Instead, his eyes met the carefully wrapped bundle of letters, tucked away on the back corner.

He sighed. Of course, he had to torture himself like this, every time. Unable to stand it any longer, he grabbed the bundle and pulled at the ribbon that held the papers together. James opened the letter carefully as he could, making sure not to crumple it any further. It was the last thing he had, after all.

1845 – they had never gone this long without communication. Four years was the most, now they were trading to double. Would James ever receive another letter? Another word? The years could go on and on from there.

_“James dear,”_ The careful script read. James could still remember the way he would say it in that brogue of his. Impossible to forget. James traced his fingers over the looping F, R, M, and C of his signature.

James could feel the tears building in his eyes. He folded up the letter again, before he could stain it. He needed to move it somewhere further away, out of sight, where it could no longer tempt him. He kept doing this, this routine. Over and over, even if he remembered every single pen stroke in his mind now.

Still, he could not bear to be further away from it.

The rain outside had stopped, and now a thick fog filled the grounds. James stood and turned to the glass, pressing his hand against it to feel the cold air.

If Frank were here, he would tell James to go take a rest. Have a cup of tea and sit for a while.

But that was the problem – Frank was not here.

James shook his head and shut his eyes. Still, the thought remained.

Anne stood outside wrapped up in her dressing gown, staring at her husband in the dim light of his study – the lone light still burning on the main floor. 

This was one of the bad days. James was somewhere else. She hadn’t seen him in hours. 

James stood against the window, staring out in some trance, not even noticing her. 

Surely, he would join her for dinner, Anne had thought. Though James was never too enthusiastic about meals to begin with, it was possible he would not even move for it now.

Of course, James would always join her in the evenings, when she’d ask. On a good day, a better day, they’d sit by the fire and read, or play with the children. He would put on his best smile, his softest voice. His eyes always gave him away, though – the sadness in their depths.

Anne knew why. She always had, but she had never expected this turn of events. James was not supposed to come back alone.

It was years ago, now, but James had never been the same since. All hope had faded. A part of James had been lost, left behind in the Arctic. He could pretend all he liked, lock himself in the study with every new letter.

But Anne knew. She understood. She only wished there was something more she could do. The truth was, Frank was the only one who would have known what to do with this James.

Anne turned back and returned to the house 

She walked through the silent halls – the servants retired and the children long asleep. Still, the silence could not explain the emptiness she felt. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. 

Anne stopped in front of James' study. James never locked the door, never tried to keep her or the children out. Not physically, anyway. Anne pushed the door open, quietly. 

James stood staring out the window, the lamp on the desk fading, threatening to go out.

She tiptoed in, noticing the ribbon on the desk and the drawer still open.

“James, my love?” she said, keeping her voice hushed to a whisper, not wanting to alarm him.

“Anne!” he turned around. “Darling, I’m sorry-”

“No, no, it’s-” it was not alright, but how could anything be anymore. “I just worry when you don’t come to dinner.”

She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. She felt him sigh and lose some of the rigid posture, as he brought his arms around her in return. She wanted this comfort just as much as he did. 

James had barely been much taller than her to begin with, but he seemed much shorter now, smaller. Awfully fragile. Even though, thankfully, he’d regained the weight he’d lost in the Arctic.

“Will you come sit with me? I could use your company.” She had been careful how she spoke to him in these last two years. He had once been “ _James dearest,”_ or, “ _my dear_ ,” among others. But it was too close, too like how Frank said it. Anne had seen the brief change in his face whenever she would spark the memory.

Anne did not slip up like that anymore.

“Of course,” James replied. He smiled softly, genuine, but with sadness in the background. They parted, and he took her hand.

He meant it; she knew. She hoped one’s love for someone could be just as present as heartache and grief for another. If only this had been a different world – a kinder one, to all three of them.

Anne led him to the library, still holding his hand.

“Shall I read to you?” James said as he lit the lamp.

“Please.” Anne picked up the new poetry book from the table. She liked having James read to her, it was one of their oldest traditions. With such long periods of separation she wanted to memorize his voice – and make up for all the time he was away. 

“What will it be tonight?” James sank down into the seat beside the window, his arm stretched across the back.

Anne handed him the book. “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” She sat down beside him. “Any particular poem?” 

“Doesn’t matter, any page will do.”

James opened the book and wrapped his arm around Anne. “Number twenty-eight.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her head against his shoulder. 

“ _My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!_ ” James began. “And yet they seem alive and quivering.” He let out a breath. “ _Against my tremulous hands which loose the string...”_

Anne opened her eyes and stared down at the page. 

James' voice fell soft. “ _And let them drop down on my knee to-night._ ”

She couldn’t be sure if the emphasis was James’ or the author’s. 

_“This said, ... he wished to have me in his sight._ ”

Anne could see his hand shaking as he traced the lines. 

_“Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring…”_

She wasn’t sure if she should stop him. What was worse? 

_“Yet I wept for it! — this, ... the paper's light …_ ” James cleared his throat. _“_ _Said,_ _”_ He stopped himself, shifting on the couch. “ _Said,_ _Dear, I love thee_ _; and I sank and quailed.”_ His voice a whisper, breaking as he managed the line. “ _As if God's future thundered on my past.”_

Slowly, he closed the book. James sighed. “Anne, I can’t-” 

“It’s alright.” She looked up at him. There was a tear in his eye and he turned his head quickly to try and hide it. 

“It’s not,” he replied. He set the book aside and out his hand over his mouth. 

“I know it’s not. I just- I’m sorry, James.”

“You, no,” he muttered to himself, “I’m the one who has something to be sorry for,”

“That’s not true, you did everything- It’s a bad night. Let’s just call it that.”

James nodded, still deep in thought. 

“I think you could use a rest.”

James scoffed. 

“Well, come on.” She stood and reached out her hand to pull him out of his spot.

She walked him upstairs, like she was worried he might lose his balance and take a fall. Could he? Anne didn’t know what to do with this, there was no precedent. 

James changed into his nightgown as Anne waited, perched on the side of the bed. He wanted to apologize, but there was no point. They both knew, but it was easier not to talk about it. 

What was the use? Either Frank would come back and everything would go back to normal, It would all be fine, or-

Or: none of it mattered anyway. Now wasn’t the time. He’d worried Anne enough. 

James walked over and crawled into bed beside her. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked. 

“Tired,” James admitted.

“See, rest is good.”

“That it is.” He settled on the bed, adjusting the pillow, letting his body relax. 

Anne reached to put out the light and rolled closer to him. She pressed her head against his chest and reached up to brush the short hair at the back of his head.

“You can talk to me, you know,” she whispered. 

“Of course.” James knew he could, in theory. Did he want to talk about it? That was a different question entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem in italics is #28 from “Sonnets from The Portuguese” by E. B. Browning (1850)


	3. Chapter 3

### June 1854

James Clark Ross smiled as he held his newborn son in his arms. The brightest smile Anne had seen from him in a long time. The little boy had the same eyes and hair as James – at least how James’ used to be.

He looked brighter and more alive too, somehow. Even if his hair was now white, his eyes remained just as intense – if only now framed by creases and filled with tears.

Anne could not help but smile as she sat across from him, watching him gently rocking the baby back and forth. For the first time in years, she was wondering if perhaps they would all be alright, finally. 

“They all look like you,” she said. “Sometimes I try to find myself in them – but they’re all you.”

James looked up at her, face clouding over with concern. “Darling, no. They’re just as much you as they are me.”

“I think it’s time you need glasses,” Anne replied, with a laugh, trying to lighten the feel of the room once again.

It did not truly bother her, but it was hard to miss. Even Annie, named after her, was the spitting image of her father, at least how Anne imagined him at that age. Little James, although the features seemed watered down, still looked unmistakably like James. To think, he was only a year younger than his father when he joined the Navy. It was frighteningly young to imagine, Anne now realized. 

“You don’t see what I see, do you?” James said. “Young James has your eyes and your patience.”

“He studies like you,” Anne added.

“Ah, I can’t remember how I studied, too long ago now.” He brushed it off. “I wish they all had your eyes, though,” he looked over at her. “You do have the most beautiful eyes.”

“Oh, stop it! You’re not courting me anymore,” she said, blushing, unable to hold back a giggle.

“Oh, am I not?” James said. He held his son close as he stood and moved to the spot next to Anne. “I fear I may have the wrong impression, then.”

“We’re married, you’re holding our son!”

“Still, don’t see that as a reason to stop.” He put his arm around her and leaned in to give her a chaste kiss.

Anne smiled and shook her head. “Oh James.” She sighed as she leaned her head on his shoulder and watched the baby happily cooing in his arms.

“So, have we thought of a name yet?” Anne asked. 

“I had hoped you would,” James replied.

“Well I do have something in mind...”

“Oh really?”

“Well… Francis. Francis James Coulman Ross, or something of the like.”

James stilled, the colour draining from him. 

Anne cursed to herself. She shouldn’t have even mentioned it. They’d brought it up before, naming a son after Frank. That was just before Annie was born. To think, she could have been Francis if she'd been a boy – or Frances, if James hadn’t insisted on naming her after Anne herself first. 

“I don’t think...” James staring off at some point on the floor. 

“Oh no, James, I’m sorry I never should have suggested-”

“No, my dear- It’s... ” 

Too soon, perhaps. James would have to hear and say the name every day. _His_ name. It was enough that Thomas shared a name with another of James’ dear lost friends. But this was entirely different. 

“I wouldn’t want to- Not when-” James brought a hand up to his face to cover his mouth. 

“It’s alright, you don’t need to explain.”

Anne sighed and squeezed James’ arm. She looked down at the baby, who was blissfully unaware of the things that haunted his parents. 

James sat silently, still rocking the boy, but his face had turned to that frown again. A single tear rolled down his cheek and he made no effort to stop it. Anne wouldn’t mention it either. 

### November 1854

James knew what to expect after the letters. He knew what he’d be seeing – it didn’t change how he felt. There was no way to anticipate any of this. The guilt, the pain, and the overwhelming sense of _nothing_. 

Of course, he couldn’t let any of it show on his face, or in his tone. Not in front of John Barrow Jr. and all these explorers, young and old. 

They were all too satisfied with this outcome. So much of the Passage charted, some proof, something to show the hungry public and hopefully calm Franklin’s widow. They could be at peace with declaring them all dead now. This wouldn’t be enough for Jane, though, James was sure. 

James looked back down at the spoon. The room was filled with voices, from whispers to loud debates. Most of the others were gathered around the silver plate, supposed to be Franklin’s, or the forks belonging to the doctors. No one focused on the spoon. 

He didn’t want to believe it when he’d first read the report from Rae and McClure. None of it. He was hoping it might be some mistake. 

Now what did it matter? It was just a spoon, it could have changed many hands. Perhaps it was stolen, or dropped, or…

Likely, whoever carried it, wasn’t Frank. He wouldn’t have chosen to go towards Fish River. Not if he was making the choice… not if he were still alive. 

Too many possibilities. James had ignored the simplest. 

Still, even if it wasn’t Frank, James had condemned them to their fate. He’d guessed wrong. He’d told them not to waste resources going down to Back’s Fish River. He was sure neither Frank nor Franklin would have made that call – yet, that had been exactly what the men had done. 

Did he think he was right, then? Or did he just want to argue against King? It didn’t matter now – whatever the reason, the choice was made. And the consequences were right in front of him. 

James would never know, he’d never have a day to mourn. Not even a year. He could try to guess if Frank were among those twenty or so men, and convince himself one way or the other. Would he have wanted such a fate for Frank? So many years in that misery, cold and starving, desperate enough to cannibalize his countrymen. All while waiting for James, only for him to never arrive. 

He couldn’t take this any longer – this display of these poor men’s things like it was some spectacle or museum exhibit. 

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said to Barrow. 

“Sir James!”

“I’ll be in touch.”

James stormed out, brushing through the crowd. He didn’t have any trouble doing that now, when he looked like nothing more than another old man in a dark coat, not like the others in their uniforms and epaulettes. 

None of it mattered now, not anymore. 

James walked out into the crisp air and kept going. He glanced over at the Greenwich observatory through the park as he walked past. The fog rolled in over the hills and the old trees. The place was so old it never changed, it would not change after he, too, was gone. 

Years ago, a decade now, he and Frank had worn themselves out walking through there. James had raced past, calling Frank an old man, while he stood there with his hands crossed and maintained that he was the smart one here, sticking to the more level path. 

James looked away and turned his back to the park. He would not go in, it held too many memories he did not want to wake.

Anne sat by the window of James’ study, watching the autumn rain fall. Her hand rested on James’ desk, knowing what that top drawer contained beneath that heavy oak. She also knew full well about the bottle of Scotch in the bottom one. 

She was wondering if they would ever know peace again. James would never be free, not with this. Anne didn’t know what to do, where to start. Every new expedition, every new letter, every piece left behind by dead men. Every time James shattered again.

This was worse. Dr. John Rae’s expedition had found answers and sparked a scandal. They all wanted answers so badly, they failed to consider that those answers might not be the ones they wanted to hear. Or what they would do to the people who had to live with them.

“Mummy?”

Anne turned around. Little Annie stood in the doorway looking at her. 

She reached up and wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh my dear, what’s wrong?”

“I think I should be asking you,” Annie said. 

“You are far too smart for your own good.” She stood and walked over to her. This was the misfortune of all their children being as brilliant as their father, they never missed a thing.

“What’s wrong?” Annie asked. 

“When you were little, several of your father’s friends left for an expedition and got lost. We weren’t sure when they were going to come back, now it looks like they won’t at all.”

Her daughter looked down, her little brows furrowed as she thought this over, too like her father. “Is that why Papa is always so sad?” 

“Yes,” Anne admitted. 

“Is that why you’re sad too?” she pressed on.

Anne sighed. “Yes. Some of them were my friends too. But I will be alright, soon. When your father gets back.” She looked out the window. “Any minute now.” 

In the distance, she could see a coach riding down the long road to the house. 

“You’ll have to be patient with him for a little while, alright?”

Annie nodded. She took Anne’s hand and they walked out into the foyer. 

The door opened.

“Papa!” Annie cried as she ran to hug her father. 

James tried his best to feign a smile as he leaned down and wrapped his arms around her. He looked up at Anne and shook his head. 

“Annie, I think it’s best you let your father rest, he’s had a long journey. We can all sit and read and catch up after dinner.”

The girl nodded and turned to go upstairs. 

“How was it?” Anne asked. Although she probably didn’t need to ask, by the look on James’ face. 

James just shook his head. He swayed as he took off his coat. He looked as though he’d more likely come back from the Arctic than a meeting. 

“Let’s go into the study,” he said, already half to the doorway. 

He closed the door behind them and briskly walked to his desk and pulled out his bottle of Scotch and two glasses, motioning to Anne. 

“None for me,” she said.

James still poured himself a glass. He stood leaning hard against the back of his chair.

“James, tell me.”

“There was nothing new anything could tell us. Nothing that wasn’t in the letter...”

“That doesn’t change how it made you feel.”

“Every minute of it was awful,” James said in a low voice. “They figured out what must have happened… the awful things they endured. They brought back their things.” His voice broke. “The ones they dropped as they died.” He knocked back the rest of his scotch and set the glass down, shaking and on the verge of tears.

“James,” she said, coming to his side. “Tell me, James.”

He turned and hugged her tight.

“Rae found… ” He took a sharp breath. “It’s just a spoon really. The last thing they have of _his_. Rae didn’t even know who it belonged to, at first.” 

“Oh Christ,” Anne swore under her breath. She gripped James tight as he began to silently sob into her shoulder.

What could she say? It was never going to be alright, to get any better. Perhaps, only less painful. But that was not what James wanted to hear right now.

“Anne, Anne I…”

She rubbed his back, making some futile attempt at comfort. She never knew what to do when he was this far gone. 

“I should never have let him go.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him, not when he’d made up his mind.” Anne offered. That statement was probably true. Perhaps, there was more both could have done to keep Frank home – if only they had known. Except they did not. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

James nodded. 

Moving James from the study to the bedroom in such a state was too common an event now. He’d never be able to do it on his own. She was beginning to wonder if he could manage to do anything to sustain his own existence without her suggestion, if not command.

James collapsed onto the bed with no argument, perhaps he simply couldn’t will his body to stand any longer. Anne sat down beside him and gently brushed a hand through his hair. 

“How could I be so wrong… I got it all wrong...”

“You did everything you could James, I know that.”

“I couldn’t make him stay, I couldn’t save him, I didn’t even tell him-” He cut himself off with a sharp breath. 

“How could you? Everything was in your way.” Anne wished she could tell him that she knew, she understood perfectly, and somehow it would be alright. Somehow, she would make it alright. Somehow, she’d do everything she could and it would be enough. But was that any better than James’ stubborn attempts to seem alright. “I’m sure he knew,” she whispered. 

James didn’t offer anything else, and she didn’t press on. She sat there, as his tears soaked the sheets, with his hair noticeably in disarray under her hand. 

Anne peered down at him. He took slow even breaths, curled up in the bed like one of the children, peacefully asleep. She wouldn’t dare wake him for dinner, he needed time and rest. 

As carefully as she could manage, Anne rose from the bed, put out the light and tiptoed out of the room. 

Outside, as soon as she was far enough away, she finally let herself sob too. All the years of uncertainty, of missing Frank and not even being able to talk to James about it, hit her in a wave. This wasn’t fair, any of it. Somehow, she’d lost a part of both of them in all this. 

Anne pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. There would be time to grieve and process later. Like a wave, it would pass. She took a deep breath and proceeded downstairs. 

In the dinner room, Annie and James Jr. were already waiting. They might have been a bit too young to sit with them for dinner, but Anne had begun to invite Annie, and young James, whenever he was home from school. James had no objections, and the two made it a more pleasant affair for them all, sharing the latest interests from their studies. 

“Where’s Papa?” Annie asked. 

“Unfortunately he’s not feeling well after the journey. He won’t be joining us tonight,” Anne answered. 

“They found the expedition, didn’t they?” James Jr asked. 

Little James had grown too smart for the excuses of his father’s health, although they weren’t entirely untrue either. He knew it was all about the expedition. It was always the expedition. 

“No,” Anne answered, plainly. “That’s the worst part… they didn’t. They never will.”

They sat down in their places across from each other. Anne looked at the four neatly set places, then to James’ chair at the head of the table, destined to remain empty. 


	4. Chapter 4

###  December 1856

“Most people like to look off into the distance, off to the side somewhere. Don’t try to smile – pick a pose you can hold for a while,” Maull, the photographer, explained. 

“So, I shouldn’t look directly at the apparatus?” James asked. He sat at a staged table in the Piccadilly Street studio of Maull & Pollyblank. 

“Well, sir, you can, but most people don’t.”

“Ah.”

“Alright, ready?” the photographer asked. 

James straightened his back and focused. He straightened the papers serving as charts under his hand. “Yes.”

“Three, two, one.” The man dropped the cap and disappeared under the cloth. 

James stared right into the lens. Whoever was looking at this image would get a good impression of his gaze. It was what people noted most about him. Bird, McClintock, among them, but especially Frank...

It was only then James realized he’d been frowning.

“Alright!” The man reached up and replaced the cap. “That’ll be all!” 

James adjusted his position. This was easier than posing for a portrait, he had to admit. His back had the patience for it. It also saved him for having to sit with only his own thoughts for so many hours – not something James enjoyed doing these days. 

  


When James returned to Aylesbury in the evening, no one was there to greet him by the door. He didn’t think much of it.

James threw off his shoes and coat. 

“Papa, you’re home!” James Jr. raced down the stairs, his hair a mess and shirt clearly buttoned wrong. He looked far too pale. 

James “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

The boy looked at him nervously. “Mother fell ill all of a sudden after you left. We’ve sent for the doctor already.”

James didn’t waste any more time and raced upstairs to the bedroom. 

He could hear the coughing from the hallway. Annie and Thomas sat on the floor in the hallway outside the door. They looked up at him with worried faces. 

“She won’t let any of us in there,” Annie said in a small, helpless voice. 

“Anne?” James called as he put his hand on the door. 

Another cough in response. 

The maid opened the door. “You’d best come in, Sir. It’s been like this all day,” she said. “We’ve called for the doctor, but it seems he’s delayed with some other matter.”

“Other matter? What could possibly-” James stopped himself, realizing now was not the time to raise his voice. There was nothing he could do, not that he had much faith in doctors after his own experiences. 

“James?” Anne lay on the bed, wrapped in the sheets with a compress on her forehead. She turned her head to him and reached out a trembling hand. “Oh James, thank God!”

“Anne!” James sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand. “I’m back and I’m not going anywhere.”

She coughed again. “You shouldn’t be here either- might get ill too- the children,” she managed in a hoarse voice. 

“I am not going anywhere,” James insisted. He brought her hand to his face and kissed it. 

Anne sank into the pillow and seemed to sigh. “Could never- stop you- from anything.”

“If there’s anything you need, tell me. Anything.”

“Just read to me? Please. I want to hear your voice.”

“Of course.” James grabbed to book from the nightstand and climbed into the bed beside her. 

She repositioned herself, still all wrapped up, to fit into his arms. James held her close. He had no intention of leaving her alone in this state. 

###  January 1857

“It’s a fresh snow, James, the boys will want to go out. You should join them,” Anne said, a smile on her face. 

Some colour was finally starting to come back to it after the weeks she was ill and deathly pale. It was a good sign, finally. 

She reached forward and pulled the book James had been attempting to read to her out of his hands. “Doctor said I’ll be alright after some rest. So let me rest.” 

James sighed. “You know I don’t want to leave you. Neither of us do.” He glanced over to his daughter, sitting on the other side of her bed, holding her mother’s hand.

Anne gave James a long look. “Too many people have been in this one room for long enough.” 

“Very well,” he replied. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead before pulling himself up off the bed. 

Anne turned to her daughter. “You too, I know how much you want to throw snow at your brothers.”

The girl’s face lit up. “Yes I do, very much!” She bounced up and walked around to James. “Have a good rest, Mummy.”

They’d all been so worried for Anne, especially Annie and young James, they needed a light adventure. 

Anne now waved them off and pulled the blankets up. 

In the doorway where Thomas’ small head peeked in. 

“Well you heard that didn’t you?” James asked.

The boy nodded.

James chuckled. “Well, go get dressed, we’re going out.” 

“Yes!” He raced off down the hall. 

James followed more slowly. He gripped the bannister tight as he descended the stairs. Now on his feet, he felt how fogged up his mind was from all the sleepless nights while Anne had been ill. Even now that she was better, he woke at night to check on her. How easily things could have turned for the worst. How easily he could have lost her too. 

James wouldn’t have survived that either. 

“Are you alright?” Annie asked, looking up at him from the bottom of the staircase.

“Just a bit slow, forgive my knees. Go on ahead.”

He took his coat from the rack and stepped out of his slippers into his boots.

Outside, the snow blanketed the grounds. Something about the look of the bare land made a shiver run down James’ spine. 

Annie and young James were already running amidst the evergreens when Thomas passed by him without a word to join them. 

James looked out at the frozen pond and the two mounds sticking out, taunting him. He stopped just short of the water. The ice didn’t look too thick – it wouldn’t be, given the temperature on this side of the world. He never even told the younger children what he’d named them, and why. On the other hand, he’d never renamed them either. There was an old tradition for renaming a ship, but did such a thing exist for renaming something named after a ship? Perhaps a better question was whether there was any more misfortune he could possibly tempt for those, likely, dead men. 

James stilled, listening closely. Somehow, he could sense someone’s eyes on him. 

He turned around him. Some ways away in the field stood a fox, looking right back at him. Its bright fiery fur and dark paws stood out against the blanket of white. 

Not entirely sure why he was doing it, James stepped away from the pond and walked towards it. 

The fox didn’t move, holding still as James approached, letting the falling snow form patches in its fur. 

“Why are you here?” James asked.

The fox only looked back at him. 

What was it waiting for? For James to catch it and tie a slip of paper never to be delivered around its neck? 

“What do you want?”

The fox’s ears perked up suddenly as it focused on something behind James, then turned and ran. 

“Aaaaahh!” Thomas cried as he barrelled past James and chased the fox out of sight. “Don’t worry Papa, I’ll keep you safe from the foxes!” He looked up at James excitedly. 

James laughed. 

“Good boy,” he said, putting an arm around his son’s shoulder. 

“I have to go save Jams from Annie now,” Thomas said. 

They looked over to the other side of the lawn, where Annie was throwing snowballs at her shrieking older brother. 

“Yes, he does look like he needs some support, doesn’t he? Well off you go.” James patted his shoulder. 

“Ahhh!” He yelled as he raced for the other two. 

James sighed, watching his breath hang in the cold air. He felt ridiculous for trying to talk to the wildlife. He needed sleep and he had no chance of keeping up with the children, so he lingered behind. 

He looked down at the snow. There, delicate paw prints circled the ground and seemed to lead off into the distance. 

James followed the tracks across the grounds, until he stood in front of the shed by the stables. He hadn’t paid much mind to this place in years. All these things he’d collected over ten years ago, when he had a different plan for himself in mind. 

Carefully, James pulled the door open and stepped inside. The once-vibrant jars that littered his various desks and lodgings now greeted him, more like a mausoleum. These things he’d collected with Frank, in hopes of examining them together, and writing together. How could he ever do it alone? 

Even if he tried, it was too late now, wasn’t it? James didn’t have the mind, or the heart. Everything here was a reminder of him. Even if he could manage to force himself, he could tell most specimens hadn’t survived well. 

“Papa?”

James turned around to Annie standing behind him. 

“We were worried you’d gone missing,” she said. 

“No, I’m right here.” James stepped back out of the doorway, closing the door and the latch. “Not going anywhere.”

“Good. We were planning to go back inside.” She reached a small, pale hand out to him. 

“Of course let’s go.” James took her hand and was alarmed to find it freezing cold. “Where are your gloves?”

She looked up at him, almost offended that he asked. “Where are yours?”

“I’m used to the cold,  don't you go changing the subject! ”

“Mitts got in the way, besides they would be soaked from the snow, so I took them off.”

James shook his head. “Don’t tell your mother, she doesn’t need the worry.” 

“Of course,” Annie said, trying and failing to hide a smile. 

Anne was right, James was too easy on her. “And it’ll be a hot cup of tea and to bed with you when we get home! You’re not getting away so easily!”

He realized he’d had this exact conversation before. Except the roles were reversed. 

A lifetime ago, James had insisted it was too difficult to take readings in his gloves, that he’d only pop them off for a second, only for Frank to yell at him about frostbite. 

James had made sure to keep his gloves on when he looked for Frank. It was almost superstitious, though James would never admit to such things.  _ See Frank, I listened to you, now listen and come home with me _ , he was supposed to say. He’d planned it out in his head. There were too many things he wanted but was never able to say. 

It didn’t matter now. 

James looked back at his daughter leading him back home. She had been just a baby when he’d left on the search, now she was up to his shoulder. 

It all was another lifetime ago, but he still could not let go. 

###  March 1857

James caught himself briefly in the mirror of the Franklins’ receiving room. He arranged his jacket and smoothed his hair as best he could. His top hat had done a number on it during his brief walk from his last stop. Not that it really mattered how he looked, it was only for his own vanity. There wasn’t much he could do to make Lady Jane Franklin think any better of him. 

“Sir James.” Sophia stood in the doorway with a frown.

“Miss Cracroft, I hope you are well?” James nodded to her.

“I’m just fine, yes. My aunt is in the study, you can join her there.” 

James followed her into what used to be Franklin’s study. There, Jane stood facing the window. 

“Sir James,” she said, “please take a seat if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but I’m alright.” James didn’t want to give the illusion that he was intent on staying, or risk making himself too at home here. “Lady Anne sends her regards, unfortunately she is still recovering and won’t be able to see you.”

“Of course.” She turned towards him, finally. “I was so sorry to hear of her illness, James, but I’m glad to hear she is recovering.”

“As am I.”

“Well then, I imagine you know why I wanted to see you.”

“I do,” James replied. “McClintock is one of the Discovery service’s finest, I assure you. If there’s anything to be found, he’s your best shot.”

“I trust your judgement on this matter.” Jane took a step around the desk, closer to him. “I understand this is a poor time to ask, with Anne’s recent illness… but are you sure you aren’t willing to command? Your son could even go, he’s certainly old enough now. Arrangements can be made instantly, I can-”

James shook his head. “I’m surely too old now.” He didn’t want young James going to that place either, and thankfully he wasn’t asking. Perhaps, watching the reality of the supposed glory of exploration affect his father so intensely in his early years made James Jr. immune to it. 

“You’re still younger than John was, or your uncle...”

“McClintock is the best choice.” James sighed. Perhaps, unlike him, neither of them had felt every year of their age and every bitter arctic winter they’d survived. Perhaps, James had overestimated Franklin. Frank too, with how tired he’d been… 

“You don’t suppose they could be alive still, do you?” Jane asked. She stared off at one of the paintings on the wall, her lower lip showing the slightest tremor. In a rare moment, James saw the cracks in the ice wall she had built up over the years. 

She looked just as worn and tired as James. They had all too much in common, the loss of their friendship amidst this was a tragedy in itself. But, James did not blame her for blaming him. 

“As you’ve said, perhaps some of the younger men survived, living among the natives,” James offered, avoiding answering directly. 

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Ah.” James knew what she meant. He’d written to her in letters that he was sure they’d perished early. He thought it would bring comfort, given the alternative. Now James wondered if such a kindness was even possible in all this. Nevertheless, he’d save her from his own doubts.

Still, no was James’ answer. Neither Franklin nor Frank, even if they’d made it a few years longer than he’d thought. It was the void, this sense of emptiness in the world he now felt. It didn’t come suddenly, like it ought to with grief, but gradually, excruciatingly slow. 

“I didn’t think so,” Jane said. “But perhaps, someone will be able to tell us what happened. One man would be a marginal success.”

“That it would.” James wanted those answers too, yes, but he feared they would break him. There was a kindness to the unknown he never truly appreciated, when the truth was always the worst he could imagine. 


	5. Chapter 5

###  September 1859 

Anne watched as both her Jameses stepped into the foyer. They looked too pale, with their mouths held in the same tight frown. She hated seeing it.

“What happened?” Anne asked, trying to piece it together. She had speculations: McClintock was still out there, likely to be coming back soon – or perhaps not. 

James Jr looked up at his father, who couldn’t seem to formulate an answer. “Captain McClintock found a record,” he said. 

“Oh.”

“I… I’ll leave you to discuss then?” He asked, nervously looking at Anne. 

“Yes, of course,” she replied. The younger James was too good at knowing when to give his father space. “There’s a fresh pot of tea, you should have some after the journey.”

He nodded and ran upstairs. 

Anne looked back at James, still standing there and leaning hard against the wall. “James…” She was scared to ask at this point. “Well, come and sit down, at least.”

He nodded, and they walked into his study.

“They have proof, now. Or, as much proof as they could ever hope to find,” James said in a low voice as he sank into his chair. “Of course, they’ll never find everything – not the ships, not the bodies…” He shook his head, as if trying to shake the thought from his head. “There’s documentation, though. Suppose that’s all that matters now. They won’t have to face the wrath of Jane Franklin anymore. There they have it: Franklin’s death, in the words of Fitzjames… and….” his bitter tone turned to a broken whisper, “and Frank.”

“Oh James.”

“The worst part? They found it at Victory Point. In the cairn. My cairn.” James’ voice grew quiet. “Of course he’d go there – I was so close. If only I’d known. I should have known,” he whispered to himself.

“You didn’t. You made the best call you could at the time.” It was the same thing she told him every time. 

He nodded, silent.

There was nothing anyone could have done, knowing what they knew at the time. Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy. So many small, seemingly meaningless decisions that led them here.

“I’ll have to look at it, when he returns.” James’ hand fell on the edge of the desk, like he was being pulled by the contents of that upper drawer. 

“I’ll come with you. Or little James. I’m sure Ed Bird will be there by your side in a heartbeat.” 

James shook his head. “No, I’ll go by myself.”

“If you insist.”

“I think… I feel if someone was there I’d lose my composure in a second.”

“Well you don’t have to keep it here. Now or after.” 

“I know.” James sighed heavily. “I need to write to Ed, and Jane. Send an update to Tom's family...”

“Rest now, nothing will change in a matter of hours.”

“You’re right. I should go upstairs then.”

“I’ll be there shortly.” Anne let him go, and he walked out of the study.

She looked around at the mess of the place. Crumpled paper with ink stains on the desk and the floor. At least two empty teacups resting on the bookshelf. Anne sighed. 

Leaving the study, Anne heard footsteps behind her. 

She looked back into the dark hallway. There Annie stood – eyes wide.

“How long have you been here?” Anne sighed.

“I-” the girl hesitated.

“Annie dear, you’re not in trouble.” Anne motioned for her to come closer. “You’re not a little girl anymore – I imagine there’s not much of this we are able to keep from you and your brothers.”

“Did they finally find out what happened to Papa’s friend?” she burst out.

Anne wrapped an arm around her and led her to the sitting room.

“No. I don’t think anyone will ever know, at this point. That’s what makes it so hard on your father.”

“Oh.” She tilted her head, processing. “I thought, Franklin…”

“Ah.” Of course she didn’t know. How could she when James never even said his name outside her company? Anne let out a breath and hoped she wouldn’t regret this. “Yes, Franklin was a friend, but there was someone else. Your father and I had a dear old friend. He and your father met on an expedition when they weren’t much older than your brother. His name was Francis Crozier.”

“From the Antarctic?”

“Now, it’s not my story to tell, it’s your father’s. Whether he wants to talk about it or not. He lost too many friends over the years.”

“I think I understand,” Annie replied. “Thank you for telling me.”

Anne did wish she could speak of him more, retell the children all the stories James had told her about his adventures with Frank. And of course, Frank’s less flattering corrections to James’ stories. 

“Of course. Now, your father and I will see you at dinner, yes?” Anne asked. 

The girl smiled and nodded then turned and disappeared into the library. 

###  November 1859 

John Barrow Jr’s offices were mostly empty, except a few whispering old Arctics. No one James wanted to talk to. It was true that most of the world had lost interest by now. Their deaths had already been declared by the Admiralty five years earlier, but it seemed only he and Lady Jane who could never let go. 

“Sir James, it’s good to see you,” Barrow said, too cheerful. Yes, this was all good news. Exciting news – for everyone who hadn’t lost someone they loved. “Right this way,” he continued, leading James into another room; it was almost empty but there was the document, lying spread out on the table.

“Gentlemen, Sir James Ross.”

He went on, but whatever he was saying didn't matter. As James approached the paper, not much else mattered.

His gaze narrowed in on the small script wrapped around the document’s margins. James knew that writing too well. He reached out and traced the signature, upside down at the top of the document.

This was it. This was Frank’s last letter, last words to him, even if it wasn’t intended as such. James knew those things were a formality, never expecting anything to come of them. Still, what if he had intended it for James to find? He must have known it might get back to James one day, if he didn’t.

This was the only remnant – the only answer he’d ever have in the end.

“Sir James? Sir James!”

James turned – Barrow was trying to get his attention, looking exasperated.

“Yes?”

“It’s clear yes? The confirmation of Sir Franklin’s death. It’s the best answer we’re going to get.”

“Right, yes.” This was about Franklin, after all. It always was. Not Francis, who had even been omitted from the grand portrait of the search effort.

James took one last long look at the paper and turned, walking out of the room.

“Poor old Sir John… well, perhaps Lady Jane will finally get the closure she needs.”

James doubted that.

“Would you like to see some of the other items found?”

James really didn’t, what use was it? Artifacts… just like the letters in his desk now. He nodded anyway. 

Barrow led him to another table. There lay a whole array of tattered objects James could have ascribed to any polar expedition. Clothes and instruments, belonging to men who once had the same aspirations as him. It had all been labelled and recorded – as if any of it would tell them anything new. 

The dip circle caught James’ eye. He approached to take a closer look. James knew Francis wouldn’t have been the one using this, it would have been Fitzjames or some other officer. That fact didn’t stop James from imagining Frank hunched over it, reading out the letters for James to record. 

A pair of blue spectacles lay not too far from it. They could have been anyone’s, but he remembered the sight of Frank in such a pair as they looked out at the ice and snow and argued about the semantics of how best to describe the conditions. 

James turned away from the table. It was no good looking at all these things and speculating.

He gave Barrow a half hearted goodbye and slipped away. Behind a corner, where he was sure no one could see him, he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the tears forming in his eyes. He needed to get home. 

He looked up and saw his own face. In front of him hung the infamous portrait he posed for when he still thought this all had a different ending. Above him, the portraits of Franklin and Fitzjames. Not Frank. Of course, they never planned on including him, even if he was the most worthy. 

James turned his back on it and stepped out into the rain and walked down the street, trying to get away from it all as fast as he could manage. 

Perhaps out of an old habit, or trying to punish himself further, James wandered into Greenwich park again. 

The place never changed, even if he hadn’t been here since before Annie was born. Fifteen years. 

Carefully, he picked the least steep path and descended into the fog. He found some shelter from the light rain under one of the large trees. 

All that writing on that document, a futile last resort at communication. Those ships had been, what? A hundred miles away from where James decided to turn back. Only a year after they’d been abandoned. If he’d just pushed himself to walk another fifty, maybe he’d seen them. Maybe there would still be someone on board. He could at least direct the next party, if not go after it himself. 

What if he’d gone back to Victory Point himself? He should have gone straight there and wasted no time. Frank must have expected him to go there. 

He could have found them. He was so close. So close. 

So many things he could have done. So many. 

So this was it, then? Frank was gone – really gone. James would never speak to him again, never hear his voice or his long sighs. 

He’d never even have a proper grave to stand over.

Hidden in the fog of the dark and empty park, James let himself cry.

When James returned home late at night, a solitary lamp was burning outside the doorway. It was for the best, the thought; he wouldn’t have to confront anyone. 

He left his shoes by the door and threw his coat over the chair in the hall and went right to his study. 

James sat down at the desk and pulled out the half-written pages he’d been staring at for months now. He’d put it all off too long, Frank deserved better than this. He needed to finally be given the credit he was so long overdue. With the Admiralty so keen on forgetting him, James had to make sure he would be remembered. 

The pages were filled with half-crossed-out text and endless symbols connecting various sentences. He’d have to copy it all out again before he finally sent it. 

James reached down into the drawer and pulled out the bottle of scotch and poured a full glass before picking up his pen. 

_ “He was thus the first to prove a continuous water communication between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans—the long sought for "North-west Passage,"” _ he scribbled in the margins before flipping the page over. 

_ “Captain M'Clintock is the person who has given us the knowledge of the circumstances, under which the members of the Franklin Expedition, laid down their lives in the completion of this crowning act of Arctic enterprise and heroism-” _

A soft knock fell on the door. James looked up to see his older son standing there, still dressed. 

“James… come in, why are you still up?”

“I wanted to make sure you got home, first,” the boy replied.

“You didn’t have to do that.” James rubbed his temple. “But thank you – I am home now, as you can see.”

“Yes. How was the meeting?”

“Ah. Well, there will be a report soon. I’m sure you want to know. Of course, I can tell you about it tomorrow,” James answered. 

“Yes, right. But your friend… I am sorry.”

“Oh, my boy. I should apologize that you’ve been so wrapped up in all this. It’s not on you at all.”

“I know. I’m only just beginning to understand how heavy this all must have been. Well, I should be off to bed, then,” his son turned towards the door. “And remember,  _ blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. _ ”

James scoffed. It was the best he could do without bursting out in bitter laughter, but he knew his son meant well. He was doing his best – better than James could have ever expected of him.

“Thank you, James, I’ll do my best.”

“Good night, then,” the boy said. 

“Wait.” James sighed as he stood and walked up to little James. Only, he wasn’t little anymore, he was about James’ height now, and threatening to overtake him any day now. Soon, James himself would be the “little” one – Frank would have had a good laugh about that if he had lived to see it. 

James pat his son on the shoulder. “You’re a good boy, thank you for looking after your mother and siblings while I was away.” 

“It’s no trouble at all,” he replied. 

“Good night, my boy. I won’t be up too late.” He had so much of his mother in him. It certainly wasn’t James’ influence that had made him turn out so well. 

“Goodnight, Papa.” He left the study. James heard his careful footsteps on the stairs. 

James pulled out his pocket watch. It was quarter to two in the morning, he ought to try to sleep himself too. 

He reached for his glass and finished it off. As he set it down, the papers caught his eye again. 

It was almost done, only a few blanks left. He could finish it tonight, rewrite it tomorrow and put it in the post the next day, and get this whole process started. James resolved not to put it off any further. 

At the top of the page was the most notable space: Frank’s birthday. James cursed himself for forgetting. He always missed it when Frank was alive, between duties and observations and simply timing. Frank never reminded him, or gave him any trouble over it. Anne never knew either, it wasn’t like James had told her. 

Sixteenth or seventeenth, September or August. Which one was it? 

Drips of ink fell on the page. 

James scribbled out the dates. September, he simply wrote. He hoped Frank would forgive him if he got it wrong. 

He flipped the stack over before he could reconsider it yet another time. 

On the back was the passage he’d written the last time he’d dared touch the pages;  _ “Captain Crozier was of an amiable and cheerful disposition, and his unbending integrity and truthfulness, invariably won the affection and respect of those he commanded as well as the admiration and firm friendship of all those officers under whom he had served.” _

He reached for the bottle again and refilled his glass. 

It was a great understatement, this memoir, but what else could James write? 

This was the best he could do. He’d made sure to burn the first two pages of attempts that he’d thought sounded a little too affectionate. He could never write down how he truly felt and how dearly Francis Crozier was missed. He could never even tell anyone the full account–

Perhaps only Anne. 

Anne couldn’t sleep, knowing it was late and James was yet to come to bed. So, she sat in bed, waiting. Finding she had been reading the same sentence in her book over and over with her mind elsewhere. 

It was half past three, by her estimate, when James wandered into the room, swaying slightly with each step. 

His eyes widened when they met hers. “I didn’t think you were still awake.”

“I was too worried. James, tell me.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed. In the light, Anne could see his face was red and tearstained. “Anne. My darling Anne- ” 

She could smell the scotch on his breath. There was nothing she could do, she didn’t know how. It was the worst night of his life, like a broken clock chiming over and over across a long, long decade.

James' hand gently fell on hers over the covers. He didn’t get any closer than that. “You know I love you,” he whispered, “how much I love you and always have...”

He looked away and covered his mouth with his other hand. Anne understood what this was about. She would sit and wait patiently for him to admit it. 

“Yes. I do,” she replied. “Nothing will change that.”

“Anne, I-” He looked down, doing everything he could to avoid her gaze, short of running. “I loved him too. I loved him. I loved him.” He repeated it, like a line to be rehearsed, for an audience that had already left the theatre. 

“I know, James.” It was all Anne could say. 

“I was too scared, then. Of losing him, of losing you… too many things – I thought it would all be different. I thought we’d have time.”

They all thought they would have time. Too many things taken for granted; Anne was guilty of it too. 

“He never knew. He shipped off so lonely, never knowing how much I-”

“Listen to me, James.” She sat up and inched closer to him. 

“And I just let him-”

“Listen!”

James turned to her. 

She brought a hand to his face and held it still. She wouldn’t let him look away. “I know, I always know how much you love me even when you don’t say it. He must have known, even if he didn’t fully understand it. He was loved when he was here, that’s what matters – what truly mattered to him.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

It had to be. 

“I just… I want him back. I just want him back. I’d tell him this time. I’d tell him.” He seemed to be saying it to himself now. 

Anne wrapped her arms around James and lightly rocked him back and forth. Nothing could be enough again, but this was a step. If he could tell her, he could finally heal. They both could. 


	6. Chapter 6

### December 1859

Annie knocked on the door to her older brother’s room. He was home for holiday and still insisted on locking himself in his bedroom to study. 

“Come in, Annie,” he said.

“Hello, Jams. Hiding in here, are you?” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not hiding, I just, well, I have work to do!”

“Oh?” Annie stood and walked over to the desk. “What are you working on?” She peered at the paper he was scribbling on.

“It’s not for you – not yet, anyway!” He flipped it over, but not before Annie caught a name – Sir John Franklin.

“You’re writing about Franklin?”

James sat back and crossed his arms. “Yes. It’s a poem. I thought it would be a good tribute. He was Father's friend after all.”

“That’s- Will you let me read it?”

James did not know what she knew. He didn’t know it was Francis Crozier that poem should be about. Of course, even if either of them tried to write a poem about him, they would not know where to start. The man was a mystery. One she was only now starting to put together from all the pieces missing in her father’s life.

“Yes, Annie, once it’s done!”

“Marvelous! You know Papa used to write poetry too?”

“Oh?” Jams said, genuinely curious.

“Yes! I found a clipping of an old ship’s paper! He was only a year or two older than you, a midshipman! Watching the aurora borealis on expedition! Can you imagine?”

Annie remembered when she found it – a couple of years ago while digging through the books in his study. There it was, between two of the pages, waiting for her.

“Huh,” Jams said, turning back to the page, in thought. “How was it?”

“He used the word Azure – but, well, it’s certainly vivid!”

“Well, this leaves me much to think about.”

“Doesn’t it!”

“Thank you, Annie. Now would you please leave so I can actually finish writing?”

“Fine!” she turned around and marched out of the room and hurried down the stairs. 

She stopped at the doorway of her father's study and looked in – he wasn’t there. The desk was cleaner than usual, no odd papers or stacks of books on his desk – only a thin booklet. 

She crept closer. 

“ _A memoir of the late Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier_ ,” the cover read. 

There was no author listed. Had her father written this? She had no business looking at this, and yet, she couldn’t stop herself from flipping it open. 

### June 1860 

Again, James found himself in the Maull & Polyblank studio on Piccadilly Street posing for a series of portraits. He propped himself awkwardly against the pedestal, holding his hat in his other hand. 

It was a different photographer this time, someone younger. The actual apparatus was different too. Of course, things were changing so quickly these days. Sailing too, was becoming a thing of the past. As an old sailor, so was he.

James looked on at the two young other men in the studio preparing to get a portrait taken. They were sitting close, one had an arm around the other as they sat on the bench, laughing over some story the other was telling. 

They could be brothers, or friends, or perhaps, something else. It didn’t matter really, only that they reminded James of him and Frank at that age. He smiled softly thinking of it. 

“That’ll be everything, Sir Ross, thank you for your time.”

“Right, of course,” James replied, remembering why he was here. 

James returned home earlier than he expected and wandered around the halls of his house, trying to find Anne or the children. 

From the doorway to the library, James could see his two oldest children pouring over a book. 

The cover was a familiar daunting red. Another matching book lay closed on the table. There, James saw the unmistakable gold figure of a ship, confirming his suspension. 

James sighed loudly. 

Annie slammed the book shut and they both stared up at him with wide eyes and mouths agape. 

“Papa, you’re home!” Anne yelled. 

“Annie found it!” James Jr. cried.

The girl gasped loudly and turned to her brother. “Jams! How dare you!” She turned back to James. “I just wanted to know what happened! He at least got to hear the version in bedtime stories!”

“It’s perfectly alright.” James shook his head. Of course they’d want to read the books. He’d be amused if he wasn’t distressed that they felt they needed to hide their curiosity. “I’m just sorry you had to resort to reading about it like this. Can’t say my writing is any good – it took me years to finish that thing.” 

They looked back at him, the shock fading. 

“I should say, the books never tell the full story. Commanders leave a lot out.” He walked up to them and carefully tapped the book, afraid to linger, like it was a hot coal. “The friends made and all the fun we had besides the official duties.” James smiled to himself. “I never would have written about the extent of the New Year's festivities we threw, with at least half the officers all dressed up as ladies.”

“Wait? Really?” Annie asked. 

“Oh yes, and I was one of them.” 

Young James’ jaw dropped. 

“That’ll be a story for another day. Point is, many of the discoveries and adventures I had with my friend and second, Francis Crozier, all left out. Perhaps because he wasn’t around to help me write the thing. Your mother told you about Frank, I know. About our dear Frank.”

“Only in a few words,” Anne said.

“Well you should know he was there, behind every discovery I made. There was no finer explorer, or friend. He should be right there in the papers with Franklin, in the history books. Yet he isn’t even well known in this family – that part was my fault. James, you might remember the stories I told of him when you were little, and Annie, by the time it was your turn, well…” 

James sighed. He turned back to the door and motioned for them to follow. “Well come on, it’s about time I changed that.” 

“Please tell us about how you found the pirates, papa! Was there more to that one?” Annie asked. 

James laughed. “Pirates, ha! I think that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration.”

He led to the sitting room, where Anne sat with a cup of tea. 

She looked up and smiled. “What’s this expedition, then?”

“It’s storytime, care to help me tell it?” James asked her.

“What’s the tale?”

“Penguins!”

“Penguins?” young James echoed. “Wait, I think I remember this one! The angry penguin army!”

“A version of it yes, well it’s about time I tell you the full thing,” James said. He sat down on the settee, close to Anne. 

“When I first met Frank, he was a nervous midshipman. He’d never been to the Arctic before, whereas I had. It was on Sir William Parry’s second expedition that we sailed together. Over the years, he grew less nervous, and by the time he became my second in command on the Antarctic Expedition, he was one of the most calm and collected captains I have ever known. The exception, of course, was when he was confronted by those penguins.

“I’d seen him face off a gale, but there was something about those birds and their black beady eyes… You see, the Adélie, although maybe only a foot tall, seems to have absolutely no fear when faced with something much larger than it. Numerous times they’d leap right out of the icy water and into the whaleships. Sometimes they’d just watch, other times they’d try to peck at anything or anyone that was near. I must admit, they became a real fear with the crew.” 

James remembered the squeals of various ABs, mates, and officers alike as they had endured penguins jumping into their arms. Frank had frowned and done his best to remain stoic through it all, even if one had ended up tossing one of his favourite compasses out of his hand into the sea. He did have an example to set in front of the crew, after all. Of course, he had aired every single one of his grievances about the whole affair to James in private. 

“Frank was thoroughly fed up with them before the island incident already. As soon as he saw those unimaginable numbers of them on that island, he did everything he could to try and talk me out of it. I, of course, didn’t listen to his reason and went on ahead.

“I’m sure you remember this part, they attacked us, and a penguin bit Frank. That pretty much concluded all of the island adventures for the day. I wanted to get him back to the ship as soon as possible to have Doctor McCormick look him over. Of course, it was only when I had acquiesced to the retreat that he stubbornly insisted we continue. He didn’t want me to halt any charting now, all in his account. We’d argued for what felt like an hour, and then when we finally agreed to only spending ten more minutes on the island, we looked around and found that all the penguins had left. We’d scared them off with our bickering!”

“What happened after that?” James Jr. asked. 

“Not much, we stayed for the agreed-upon ten minutes and returned to the ship. I had to do all the recordings that night, with his injured hand and all. He was furious about that, though. Said my handwriting was worse than his if he were to keep writing with the injury – he was probably right!”

“Will you tell us more about the Antarctic?” Annie asked.

“I suppose I could,” James replied. 

“Would you hold on a minute, I should get the other two.” Anne stood and left the room. 

“Any more amendments to my childhood stories?” James Jr. teased. 

“Well, there’s plenty,” James answered. “I suppose, if I’m going for accuracy, I could talk about all the reading we were taking at the time.”

“Oh, do tell!” Annie chimed in.

Anne returned with Thomas and Andrew, who raced to sit down on the rug. She retired to her space beside James. 

“Well then, where were we?” she asked. 

“The pirate story?” Anne asked, looking at him intensely. 

James sighed, more for show than any real exasperation. “Very well, then, if it’s what the audience demands.”

“Pirates, pirates!” Thomas echoed. 

“Oh my love, I think the audience does,” Anne said with a chuckle. 

James looked out at his family. His tall, little James, perched on the arm of the chair – he had been just a baby when Frank had held him all those years ago in the house at Eliot Place. Annie had taken up the whole chair for herself, with her head propped up on her arm. She had become the real adventurer and naturalist of the family in James’ place. 

Thomas sat cross legged in front of him, ready to listen. Even little Andrew looked up at him with his bright eyes as he played with the decorative bows on his mother’s skirt. 

How had they grown so fast? Where had all the years gone? James thought he knew. They’d been lost somewhere between the searches and his grief. 

Yet, here they were, sitting with him and Anne, eager to hear his stories. Perhaps he didn’t fail them all so badly. There was time still, to set some things right, and he wouldn’t waste it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my most fantastic beta tulliolaciceronis (please go also read their fic, we somehow ended up sharing a lot of themes, but mine is the more depressing version)
> 
> A lot of this is a direct reference to an event, but a lot of this is completely and utterly made up with absolutely no reference to anything! I will add more detailed historical commentary to this later when I have slept. (In the meantime, if you want a source, or to know something specific feel free to ask)
> 
> Books referenced in the story:  
> “Sonnets from The Portuguese” #28 - E. B. Browning (1850)  
> “A Memoir of The late Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier” - Anon, (1859)  
> “ A Voyage of Discovery and Research in The Southern and Antarctic Regions” - J.C. Ross (1847)
> 
> Research for this came from:  
> \- “The melancholy fate of Sir John Franklin and his party” - J. Rae & R. McClure (1854)  
> \- “The voyage of the 'Fox' in the Arctic seas” - F. L. McClintock (1859)  
> \- “Unraveling the Franklin Mystery” - D. C. Woodman (1991)  
> \- “Polar Pioneers” - M. J. Ross  
> \- “The Type and Number of Expeditions in the Franklin Search 1847-1859” - W. GILLIES ROSS (2002)  
> \- “The News at The Ends of The Earth” - H. Blum (2019)
> 
> Page break source (an edited compilation of the two):  
> \- [EBB - “Sonnets From The Portuguese” cover ](https://readingwiththeringlings.wordpress.com/poetry-prose-and-drama-in-john-ringlings-personal-library/sonnets-from-the-portuguese/)  
> \- [Britain in pictures series - Admiral Sir Edward Evans - “British Polar Explorers” ](https://michaelmoonsbookshop.tumblr.com/post/618551749826002945/michaelmoonsbookshop-britain-in-pictures)


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